


Three Sisters, Bound

by Blythe



Category: Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blythe/pseuds/Blythe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Our tsar has three sons. Handsome lads, if one appreciates such things. None are married...yet." The old woman snorts. "That's why you're here, though, isn't it?"</p><p>"I'm to return the arrow to its archer. I know nothing beyond that. Other than it's," Vasilissa's mouth twists, "fate."</p><p>"So you find it cruel?"</p><p>The hut closes around her, the air warm and heavy. It's thick with the sent of rosemary and sage from the bundles of herbs hanging from the beams above them. The bones of previous suppers (hares and chickens and maybe even men) rattle in a hauntingly soothing melody. "I'd rather find it kind. But at the moment, I miss my shop." She shakes her head, and some of the syrupy warmth tugging at her mind fades. "It's childish of me, I know."</p><p>"And you're no child."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Sisters, Bound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loathlylady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loathlylady/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, loathlylady! I saw your fairy tales request while browsing through the requests in search of Things To Write For Yuletide Treats and this part of your Yuletide letter bit me rather hard:
>
>>   
> And I just love that there are SO MANY female characters. Even if they are not exactly feminist paragons every time, so many of them use their cleverness and wits to get themselves out of tight spots, and they do it by relying on other women (such as witches or fairy godmothers) for advice or useful objects. There is so much scope for strong female characters to be active and courageous, and I think it is especially important that, given that many modern authors have taken "strong woman" to mean "murderous ass kicker", exploring fairy tales allows for female characters who are more "everywoman" characters, rather than trained assassins. (Though, who am I kidding, I love fairy tales so much that if a fairy tale princess got turned into a trained assassin, I would read it. Seriously, self, don't act like you wouldn't.) It's possible for a cottager's daughter to become queen, and it's not necessarily because she's incredibly beautiful -- sometimes it's just because she's impressed the king so much with her bravery and cleverness and resourcefulness. And I LOVE that.  
> 
> 
> (I apologize in advance for the length...and for veering from your request.) 

She is much too old to play with dolls, but every morning, Vasilissa sets Matushka in the shop window so the wooden doll can watch the busy street. And every season (now that she can afford such things), she sews a new outfit for the doll, so Matushka is never too hot or too cold. If any of her customers ask (and few do these days), Vasilissa smiles and says Matushka was a gift from her mother. It explains everything and nothing. The city, she's learned, makes it easy to ignore what one doesn't wish to see. And very few people wish to see magic.

Even she wishes to see it less and less, but she makes an exception for Matushka. When Vasilissa cannot tell if a customer is trying to cheat her or truly cannot afford the price of even her cheapest cloth, she excuses herself and gives Matushka a thimble of milk and bit of bread and then asks for her advice. The little doll never steers her wrong. So Vasilissa can be kind-hearted without fearing she's a fool. Fools don't fare as well as tales would have one believe.

And because she is no fool, Vasilissa turns away the suitors who would take her from her tiny shop on its narrow street in its rough, but still kind, neighborhood. She could move if she wished. The cloth she weaves is quite fine, and she sews dresses fitting for a tsarina, but she likes her life as it is. And she fears she'll loose Matushka if she moves into _those_ circles. Success always comes at a price. The greater the success, the higher the cost.

But once one is touched by magic, it always has a hand in one's life. Each morning, Vasilissa rises before dawn to watch the sunrise. Her shop sits at the bottom of a hill, so instead of watching the sun climb over the rooftops, as she imagines the tsarina must from her window high in the palace, she watches the orange rays seep into the city's nooks and crannies. She feels as if the sun and city are sharing a secret with her, though the sun never illuminates anything new.

Until the arrow. Vasilissa is not sure what makes her look up, but she is thankful for the warning. She ducks to the right, so instead of hitting her forehead, the arrow grazes her temple and imbeds itself in the far wall with a solid thunk, its shaft quivering. Vasilissa raises a shaky hand to her temple. Only a nick, but once she feels the blood (her blood) on her fingers, pain blossoms, and she squeaks in surprise.

There is no second arrow. Vasilissa rises to her knees and peeks over the windowsill. The windows and roofs across the street are empty. She sees no evidence of an archer. She touches her temple again. Her skin prickles, not in the way it does when she feels an honest chill, but in the way...

In the way it had when she'd approached Baba Yaga's hut all those years ago. She'd thought (hoped) she'd forgotten the feeling.

Her first thought is to ignore it. She gets as far as cleaning her wound. It is a small thing, really, nothing more than a scratch. She doubts it will even scar. And if it does, what is one small scar? She has no need for flawless beauty. She has her loom and her needles and her cloth and her thread and the skill to use them all to make her way.

But she can't ignore the prickling chill along her spine or the gooseflesh along her arms. So she takes a thimble of milk, a bit of bread, and a dab of honey to Matushka.

 _It is fate,_ Matushka says even before Vasilissa offers her the milk. _You must return the arrow to its archer._

Vasilissa waits until she's finished feeing Matushka. "Who is the archer?"

_A prince._

A prince. Vasilissa closes her eyes. "And if I wish--"

 _It is fate._ Matushka's voice echoes in her mind, more frightening than Baba Yaga's.

So what she wishes doesn't matter. Vasilissa rises and glares at the arrow, still quivering in the wall. "Then I suppose it's a good thing I took Anna on as an apprentice. She can tend the shop well enough."

Matushka laughs, and it's as bitter as Vasilissa's would be if she could summon even a chuckle. _Yes, you needn't worry. Anna will do well. She'll even place a doll in the window like you._

A legacy. Well, at least she can be pleased about that.

*

The arrow leads her out of the city and then deep into the woods. It opens a secret path between two old cedar trees, and Vasilissa steps out onto a gentle hill overlooking the lazy curve of a river and fields and fields of wheat. The sun is bright overhead, the sky cloudless, and there is no chill in the air. Vasilissa is too hot in her fur hat and wool kaftan. She sheds both, folding the kaftan carefully so it takes up little room in the bag she'd packed.

The arrow spins at her feet like a needle in a compass. It settles on a point to the northwest. Vasilissa offers Matushka a drop of water from her skin. "Can you tell me anything more?"

_We are far from our former home._

"Yes. Well to the south from the feel of it." She holds up Matushka and tilts the doll's head towards the sun. "Or we've stepped into an entirely different time." There are tales of that, though Vasilissa's not sure if she believes them.

_And if we have?_

"You would know better than I."

 _That I would._

Vasilissa waits, but Matushka offers nothing more, so she slings her bag crosswise over her chest, scoops up the arrow, and sets off to the northwest, cradling Matushka in the crook of her arm.

She finds a dirt road cutting between the wheat fields. The fields give way to orchards, apple and pear, the trees planted in neat rows. There is fruit on the branches, though it is not yet ripe. The air is heady with the scent of soil and growth and life, and it tugs at something deep in her heart.

She had not loved her stepmother or stepsisters, but she had loved the forest. She'd loved the way the soil crumbled beneath her hands, begging for seeds. And she'd loved watching the turnips and cabbages, the carrots and potatoes, and even the frivolous flowers she'd planted grow and thrive under her care.

She'd loved the city, too, but her flower boxes and her pots on the roof weren't the same. Still, they'd given her some pleasure. And some food, especially welcome in her lean years.

_This is a small kingdom, but prosperous. The people love their tsar. But fate may have a cruel hand._

She glances down at Matushka. "More cruel than tearing me away from a life I enjoyed?"

_You are one woman. This is a kingdom. You tell me._

"You're right. That's childish of me." Vasilissa sighs. "And I'm well past _that_ age."

_Some women never outgrow it, but you're not one of them._

"Thank you for that reassurance."

_Do not let the serenity fool you. Fate would not have such a sweeping hand if it didn't have grand plans._

The land does seem too peaceful, and it is odd that she's seen no people. No livestock, either. Just birds and insects and the rare stag in the distance. "Am I seeing the land as it is, or am I walking in a dream?"

Matushka doesn't answer. The dirt road gives way to a paved path, and when she crests the next hill, she sees a small village nestled in the valley below her. And there are people. She is very relieved to see the people. Especially since it is almost sunset. She has no wish to travel at night, no matter how hard the arrow tugs at her hand.

She stops the first person she meets on the street, a stooped-shouldered old woman carrying a bundle of firewood. "Excuse me, grandmother. Might you..." Something in the woman's keen gaze makes her reconsider her words. Instead of asking about an inn, she says, "Might I carry that for you?"

"Might you?" The woman's gaze sharpens. "And what do you wish in return?"

"Directions to an inn, or to a family that might let me stay the night."

"Ah, so you're honest." The woman sets the bundle down and stretches, her palms braced against her lower back. "That wood _is_ heavy, especially for a frail old lady. But you seem like the kind of woman who knows looks can be deceiving, eh?"

Woman, not girl. Vasilissa is pleased by the distinction. The woman is old enough to call even mothers with grown children girls.

"Shall I carry the doll, then?" The woman's eyes drop to Matushka, then to the arrow in Vasilissa's left hand. "Or perhaps the arrow?"

"Oh, do I look too frail to carry all three?"

The woman laughs. "No, not at all, dearie." She watches as Vasilissa packs Matushka away in her bag (the doll doesn't speak, but Vasilissa can feel her relief) and then tucks the arrow in her belt. "This village has no inn, but you can stay the night with me."

"Where do you live?"

"In the forest."

Naturally. Vasilissa considers the woman. She is not Baba Yaga, but she does have power. Power and knowledge. Fate intends neither cruelty nor kindness. People apply those labels to its hand. Vasilissa may have no choice to acknowledge fate, but she does have a choice in the label she applies. The old lady might have knowledge to help Vasilissa make fate kind. Or at least not cruel.

"I don't have much in my pack, but I do have a loaf of bread, some of my favorite cheese, and a bit of jam. I'd be honored to share them with you."

"In return for my tongue?" The woman laughs again, and Vasilissa thinks she's supposed to hear it as a cackle, but she won't let the woman have that kind of power over her.

"If you're inclined to tell a stranger about your land, I won't refuse the knowledge."

"You _are_ an honest one." Her laughter this time is genuine, not a cackle. "Come along, then. I'll tell you what your doll cannot."

*

The woman speaks well into the night. Vasilissa listens, first as she skins the hares caught in the woman's snares, then as they roast over the fire, and finally as they share their meal over a pot of strong tea. Vasilissa is sure she'd find the fire too warm (and also sure she'd wake in the morning to find the hearth cold, the woman gone, and Matushka and the arrow missing from her pack), if the woman hadn't appreciated her honesty. The woman seems to sense Vasilissa's knowledge. There's a knowing gleam in her eye, not quite wicked, but certainly not kind.

"Our tsar has three sons. Handsome lads, if one appreciates such things. None are married...yet." The woman snorts. "That's why you're here, though, isn't it?"

"I'm to return the arrow to its archer. I know nothing beyond that. Other than it's," Vasilissa's mouth twists, "fate."

"So you find it cruel?"

The hut closes around her, the air warm and heavy. It's thick with the sent of rosemary and sage from the bundles of herbs hanging from the beams above them. The bones of previous suppers (hares and chickens and maybe even men) rattle in a hauntingly soothing melody. "I'd rather find it kind. But at the moment, I miss my shop." She shakes her head, and some of the syrupy warmth tugging at her mind fades. "It's childish of me, I know."

"And you're no child."

"Not for a long time." She pushes back the memories of that other hut, of the cold press of darkness, the candles that will not light, and her stepsisters' orders that she go...that she go steal a light from Baba Yaga's hut. "Which may be why I cling to it at times. I outgrew it by choice and necessity, but sometimes I resent necessity."

The rest of the dangerous warmth recedes, and the hut is once again cozy. "Such is life, as I'm sure your doll says."

"When it needs to."

"And you'd be a fool not to listen." The woman throws another log on the fire. It crackles, and in the swirl of sparks and flames, a small palace appears. "You'll reach it by noon. It's all right to sleep, young lady." She laughs. "Or should I call you tsesarevna?"

"I'm not married yet."

"Young lady, then." From the pleased note in the woman's voice, Vasilissa passed another test. "Our tsar is ill. He wishes to see all three of his sons married before he dies. I can't interfere with his will."

"Do you wish to?"

"He's my tsar, and he's loved by all." She laughs, and in the heart of her home, she does have the power to make Vasilissa hear it as a cackle. "What kind of woman would I be if I did?"

Vasilissa dreams of her stepmother and her stepsisters that night, of the dark hut, of the blinding light from the skull lantern Baba Yaga gave her, of the three piles of ashes left in its wake. And then skull's orders: _Bury me where two paths cross. Dig the hole nine feet deep. Only then will people be safe from my gaze._

When she wakes, the hearth is still warm, her pack is untouched, and the old woman is outside resetting her snares. She hands Vasilissa a small bundle. "The last of the hare. You'll be hungry for it later."

"Thank you, grandmother." She loops the bundle over her wrist and settles Matushka back in the crook of her arm.

"Will you let an old lady give you one last piece of advice?"

"I'd be a fool not to."

"Your past does not have to be your future. So take care, young lady, and don't be that child necessity stole from you." She smiles, and it's not kind, but it is comforting. "Now be on your way. Your prince awaits."

Her prince. Ivan. She thinks she must have traveled to a different time, maybe even a different world, because what tsar names all three of his sons Ivan? What tsar decides the women who retrieve the arrows shot by each of his sons are fitting brides? Why not arrange political marriages with neighboring kingdoms? Because it's not fate's hand?

Matushka snorts.

Of course. The arrow tugs at her and leads her along a winding deer path out of the thick forest. She stops at the edge and unwraps the hare, offering the first bite to Matushka.

_Does it matter where we are?_

"No, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to know." She licks the grease from her fingers. Something rustles in the brush behind her. There's still some meat on the hare's bones, but she's eaten her fill, and if there's one thing she knows about forests, it's that one should always give back what one takes. She tosses the bones into the brush and doesn't linger to hear how the forest receives her gratitude for the food.

Matushka laughs as Vasilissa strides to the road. It's wider now, and there's a steady stream of people and carts going to and from the town before them. Or is it a city? She sees a palace as she draws closer, identical to the one she'd spied in the fire last night.

A pair of guards stop her at the city gate. She shows them the arrow and says, "I believe I have business at the palace."

She'd have preferred to make her own way, but it seems all tsars like pomp and ceremony. She's escorted to the palace by the royal guard. Vasilissa cradles Matushka closer. She doesn't like the way the citizens stop and stare. Their collective gaze presses heavy at her back, and she remembers Matushka's earlier warning: _Do not let the serenity fool you. Fate would not have such a sweeping hand if it didn't have grand plans._

Whatever fate's plan, it's already twisting the kingdom. Vasilissa's throat is dry when the guards present her to the tsar and his sons. The tsar smiles (it's a kind and honest smile, but it does little to settle Vasilissa's nerves) and rises with some effort. "The first of our brides. Welcome, my daughter."

She'd set off in sturdy traveling clothes. At least no dust shows on them, but her simple dress pales in comparison to the fine silks the ladies wear. And at least she curtseys as prettily as they do.

The tsar motions to the man on his right. "My son, Ivan. He shot the arrow you've returned."

Ivan is, as the old woman said, handsome. Since it's fate, Vasilissa decides to appreciate his broad shoulders, the firm line of his jaw, the thick hair curling over his collar. From the way he looks her over, she suspects he's coming to the same decision, and is that relief she sees in his eyes? Relief that they’re close in age? Or relief that she’s still beautiful? While no one will mistake her for a young lady new to her womanhood, her skin is still smooth and unlined, and (if she can trust the word of her previous admirers) she carries herself with an ageless grace.

"I am Vasilissa." Her voice, she knows, matches her bearing.

"A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Come." The tsar motions her forward. "Now that you're here, it's time for my second son to find his bride."

Her Ivan offers her his arm. The muscle is firm beneath her hand, and she doesn't think he's flexing it for show.

"Would you take offense if I ask about the doll?" he murmurs as they follow the retinue into the courtyard where the second Ivan will shoot his arrow.

"A gift from my mother."

"Does she still live?"

"She died when I was eight."

"I'm sorry."

The silence between them sits on the cusp of uncomfortable. "It's all right. It was a lifetime ago. And I have Matushka."

"The doll?"

"The doll. Don't worry. I won't always carry her around."

He makes a sound that could be a laugh. "That wouldn't be the oddest thing in the palace."

*

She stands at the tsar's left with the eldest and the youngest Ivans the next day. Her dress is a deep blue silk, a striking color on her, and while she misses the garments she'd sewn herself, she feels safely invisible dressed like all the other ladies. Even though she's not. Not as Heir Tsesarevich Ivan's betrothed. People stare when they think she's not looking. It stabs at her like needles.

She'd left Matushka in the room she must start thinking of as hers if she wants to label fate kind. The tsar and tsarina are warm enough, as are Ivan and his brothers. She can be happy here if she opens her heart. If she ignores the pinpricks along her skin and the anticipatory weight of fate.

The woman the guards escort in is tall and striking, clad in studded leather armor with a sword at her side and a bow and quiver slug across her back. "I am General Marya Morevna," she announces before the tsar draws his breath to speak. She holds up Ivan's arrow. "I'd meet the man who shot this if it pleases you."

The tsar chuckles. "Ho-ho. A general. I'll have no fear for our safety."

The color drains from Marya Morevna's face. "It was you?"

"An old man like me? I can barely draw a bow. Don't look so stricken. It was my son, Ivan." He gestures to his right.

Marya Morevna looks relieved at that. She sizes up her Ivan with the eye of a general assessing a recruit. A promising recruit. "My godmother once told me I could marry no man save the one who bested me at archery. Your arrow sliced through mine at the bulls eye, and you were much further from the target." She bows her head. "I am bested."

Vasilissa leans forward to look past her Ivan to his brother. He blushes and stammers his thanks, and she thinks he intends to catch one of his brother's eyes when he glances over at them, but he meets hers, his eyes wide and unbelieving. It's oddly endearing. She smiles, and she wants the moment to last, because it's an easy comfort between her and the man she'll soon call brother.

"Come," the tsar says. "Now that you're here, it's time for my third son to find his bride."

Ivan steps towards Marya Morevna. She looks uncertain for the first time. Ivan hesitates, and her expression darkens. Vasilissa squeezes her Ivan's arm and sweeps down the stairs to help smooth the moment. "It seems we'll soon be sisters."

Marya Morevna takes in her dress gives her a withering look. "So it seems." She brushes past Vasilissa and accepts the arm her Ivan offers.

Anger flares in her chest. Vasilissa refuses to let it show, not in her carefully blank expression, nor in her hands, which she keeps from curling into fists as she lifts her skirt to follow the tsar and the others into the courtyard.

Marya Morevna is not her stepsister. But that look...Vasilissa shakes her head. No. Marya Morevna is a warrior and a general. That cannot be easy for a woman. She'll take no offense, not this time.

She stands next to Marya Morevna in the courtyard. The youngest son is clumsy with his bow. Marya Morevna stiffens. "Please tell me the other didn't have such form," she mutters.

"No. Your Ivan handles his bow with confidence."

Marya Morevna makes a scoffing sound. "How would you know the difference?"

Vasilissa's anger flares again. "Are you calling me a liar?" Her fingers dig into the cool silk of her dress, and she forces her hands to relax so she doesn't damage the delicate fabric. It won't do to walk around in a wrinkled gown. The people with the pinprick stares would know she's too easily riled.

Marya Morevna gives a one-shouldered shrug. "I'm saying you wouldn't know proper form. You decide if that makes you a liar or a fool."

"You know me so well after a scant few minutes? If only I had such skill at assessing people." Her voice shakes, and she knows she should not say anything more, but the words keep coming, clipped and harsh. "But I suppose I can take comfort in my accuracy, even if my assessment comes well after yours."

Behind them, one of the Ivans clears his throat. The eldest, Vasilissa thinks. Thus far, he's proven to have a level head. For a fated husband, he's not so bad. She owes him the same courtesy in return. "I apologize. This has all come as a surprise to me. I don't mean to be so..." What is she being?

"Honest?" Marya Morevna offers. She sighs. "A royal court is not a battlefield."

"It is in some stories. Though the weapons don't draw blood."

She snorts. "A true, then?"

"We are to be sisters."

"Is that a yes or a no? In some stories, the sisters never make peace."

"I prefer the ones where they do. A truce, Marya Morevna." She curtseys. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance."

*

The next afternoon, the youngest Ivan stands to his father's right, and she and Marya Morevna stand shoulder to shoulder, flanked by elder two Ivans. Or what would be shoulder to shoulder if Vasilissa stood a foot and a half taller. Marya Morevna towers even over the middle Ivan, who is by far the largest and strongest of the three brothers. They make an imposing couple.

The royal guard stride in, their expressions wooden. For a moment, Vasilissa thinks they've come to announce that no woman found the youngest Ivan's arrow, condemning him to (or gifting him) a life with no wife. But then a frog hops from between the guards with Ivan's arrow clenched between its teeth. It places the arrow on the bottom step of the tsar's dais.

The silence in the hall is heavy with shock. The youngest Ivan breaks it after a harrowing handful of heartbeats. "A frog? Father, you can't expect me..."

The frog croaks.

"A frog!"

The tsar rises, unsteady on his feet. "A frog who's returned your arrow."

"But...we don't even know if it's a female frog!"

The frog croaks again, and it may be her imagination or fate's hand at work, but imbedded in the croak, Vasilissa hears the frog say, "Excuse _me_?"

Something in the way Marya Morevna stiffens beside her makes Vasilissa glance up at her. "So you heard?"

"I think the whole court heard."

The tsar clears his throat. "Welcome, my daughter."

"But we don't--"

"I had you each craft a bow and each shoot an arrow, and what was my command? That the woman who returns your arrow be your bride. That anyone's whose arrow is not returned will never wed. Do you think me so feeble that it's not a woman returning your arrow?"

Ivan bows his head. "N-no. Of course not, father."

But still, a frog? Vasilissa understands his shock. The frog is, she supposes. Its skin is bright green with a stripe of gold down its back, and it has no warts. No blemishes at all, in fact, and it does hop with a ladylike grace.

"Then welcome your bride. You'll all be married in the morning."

"It seems," Marya Morevna says, her lip curling in a sneer, "that we'll soon be sisters with a _frog_."

"I'm guessing your godmother neglected to tell you that."

"I thought we had a truce, or do you think you can tease me?"

"Apparently, I thought wrong."

"Yes."

"Well," the eldest Ivan said after a moment of tense silence, "it really won't be the oddest thing in the palace if you decide to carry Matushka around."

"Oh yes, the court would love that. A frog, a feeble-minded girl, and a general who abhors dresses. What fine matches you've made." Vasilissa's not sure of the source of her bitterness. It's not as if this life is horrible. It's just not the one she'd chosen for herself.

Ah, then she feels it. The press of fate's hand. It _is_ twisting the kingdom, and now that she's in it, it's twisting her.

"Is that what you think?" Ivan asks. He and his brother and Marya Morevna watch her sharply.

Vasilissa takes a deep breath and wills her tension to flow from her on the exhale. "I think," she says, pushing back against the twist, "that the tsar's will is not the only one at work here."

"Careful," her Ivan says. "The tsar's will is supreme."

"And he means well for you, and his people. I've no doubt of that."

"But you feel something else," Marya Morevna says. "I do, too. Barely."

"Careful," her Ivan says again, and this time, it's a warning.

He doesn't feel the twist. Vasilissa is sure of that. If he did, he'd have to acknowledge competition to his father's will, and he's much too devoted for that. She exchanges a look with Marya Morevna. Their truce must hold. It's a truth that sits deep within Vasilissa's heart, and from the determined set of Marya Morevna's jaw, she knows it, too.

*

The wedding may be rushed, but it is beautiful, as royal weddings must be. Even the frog wears a veil, a lacy golden thing Vasilissa would not be able to complete in a single night. The tsar has fine seamstresses, or perhaps the tsarina had kept some of her childhood dolls and donated one of their veils for the occasion.

Vasilissa's veil is deep blue trimmed in silver. It's fine enough that she can see, though wearing it is like making her way though the world at twilight. Marya Morevna is dressed in scarlet. It's a fine color on her, bold and commanding. Vasilissa wonders if her veil makes her see the world through a spray of blood.

She can't shake the gruesome thought. Every time she manages to tear her mind away from it, she catches sight of Marya Morevna, and it returns. She remembers nothing of her vows, except that she makes them, and little of the kiss and feast that follows. She dances with each Ivan, the tsar's advisor, and then too many of the court's men to count. Her feet hurt by the end of the night. The kindest thing Ivan does for her after the festivities (when they're alone, and it's awkward, because three days is hardly any time to come to know someone) is to rub her feet until they no longer throb and she can wiggle her toes without searing pain.

He is not so bad. None of them are, not even the frog or Marya Morevna. Vasilissa fights the twist pressing in around her, lets the pinprick stares of the people at court slide through her, and does her best to ignore the constant swirl of dread in her stomach.

Then the tsar collapses. The tsarina sends for the kingdom's best healers, and when they fail to rouse the tsar, she sends the knights out to find the world's best healers. And when _they_ fail, she turns to witchcraft. Her sons pretend not to (or refuse to) notice.

The tsar lingers between life and death for three months. Something the tsarina tries finally rouses him, but he is not the same man. Vasilissa senses that before his gaze, cold and inhuman, settles on her. The chilling slither of a magical promise taking hold makes her skin prickle, and the air feels oily.

Fate twists. Vasilissa retreats to her room with a thimble of milk, a bit of bread, and a dab of honey. Her hands shake as she feeds Matushka.

_He will pit you three against each other. It will be his sport._

"Us three. His daughters?"

_Daughters-in-law._

"He's never made that distinction before."

_That tsar is dead._

She lets out a shaky breath. "So I didn't imagine it."

_Of course not. You're no fool._

"What do I do?"

Matushka doesn't answer. Either she can't, or she refuses to supply the obvious.

She must keep her head. Vasilissa knows that, but it's hard as the days progress. The new tsar's will is twisted, but because he is the tsar, it is supreme.

"I have a task for my daughters-in-law," he says one morning when the entire court is assembled. "I wish to see which one of you is the best needlewoman. You will each make me a shirt."

Marya Morevna flinches. She hides it well, but Vasilissa is looking for it, because she knows the general has no skill with a needle. She could offer assistance, but Marya Morevna is a proud woman. Even if she trusts Vasilissa enough to accept her aid (and Vasilissa doubts she does), her pride may force her to refuse.

The frog does nothing but blink. After court, Vasilissa walks by the youngest Ivan's quarters and hears him crying. "I'll be a laughingstock. What can a frog sew?"

Indeed. Vasilissa waits until the frog is alone and then kneels before her. "We are sisters. Would you like my assistance?"

The frog stares at her for a moment. Then she turns her back and hops away.

The anger bubbling through her is not solely the result of the new tsar's twisted will. She's given the frog no reason to trust her, but she's also given the frog no reason not to trust her. The rejection hurts, a pain that feels too much like what she felt at the hands of her stepsisters. They are _sisters_. Why isn't that enough?

So she spends the night sewing the best shirt she can. She's kept in practice because she cannot bear to let her skills wither. And also because she's half afraid she'll be driven from the palace. If that happens, she'll make her own way.

Her shirt is grand, but the frog's is grander, a creamy silk with golden trim and pearl buttons at the cuff. "Now this is a shirt!" The tsar displays it for the court to see, and the murmur of approval is genuine. "You can wear this with pride." He hands it off to his youngest son, who does indeed beam in pride.

The frog simply blinks.

"This is suitable, I suppose, for lounging around in private." He tosses Vasilissa's shirt to his eldest son. "A commoner can't hide her roots."

Her enemies in the court titter. Vasilissa swallows past the lump in her throat and refuses to allow her tears to do more than prick at her eyes. Her pulse rings in her ears, but she's learned (especially in recent weeks) to keep her expression smooth and blank and her hands loose and still in her lap.

"And what's this?" The tsar holds up Marya Morevna's shirt. It is a simple shirt, but the stitches are even and neat, a better offering than Vasilissa expected, given the general's distaste for needle and thread. "This isn't even fit for a peasant!"

Marya Morevna clenches her jaw. She meets Vasilissa's eyes. They're bright and angry and burn even brighter when she glares down at the frog.

The tsarina rises from her throne and kneels before the tsar. "This isn't like you, my husband."

"You'd speak against me?" 

Vasilissa has to admire the tsarina. The venom in the tsar's tone would still her tongue, but the tsarina presses on, "As you bade me to, if I ever found you a different man than the one who courted me all those years ago."

"I do not recall."

"Then you are not my husband."

"Watch your tongue, woman, or I'll have it cut out."

Fate's hand closes around them. Vasilissa shudders at the way it settles over them, like the cold in deep winter setting deep in their bones. The tsarina stills. "As you command."

That evening, the tsar orders the tsarina confined to the rooms in the highest tower. When his eldest son protests, the tsar rises from his throne and thunders, "You'd speak against your tsar?"

 _Yes!_ Vasilissa wants him to say. _Yes, because you're not the true tsar!_ But she doesn't have the courage to speak those words, so how can she demand it of her husband?

"No, father." Ivan kneels before him. "Your will is supreme."

*

Her truce with Marya Morevna holds, but it's a delicate thing, and Vasilissa fears it will soon depend on them uniting against the frog. She can't allow that, but she's not sure she's strong enough to stop it. She wants the three of them to act like true sisters (as much as women and frogs can), but how do true sisters act? Had either of her stepsisters felt like this? Had one of them wanted to like her, but was helpless against the will of the other?

She's not helpless. She's just not strong. It's a shameful admission. 

She sits next to Marya Morevna by the pond in the courtyard. By unspoken agreement, they do not mention the tsarina. The tsar allows nobody to visit her. Nobody is allowed to mention her in his presence, and his presence pervades the palace.

They can discuss the frog. Marya Morevna tears apart a loaf of bread and heaves chunks at the ducks in the pond with enough force that they scatter instead of swarm. "It's witchcraft." 

"Probably."

"Probably? You should be furious. That's your skill she's stealing."

"Your shirt was simple but well made. My apprentice's first--"

"Don't." Marya Morevna throws the last of the bread. "I don't need your pity."

"It's not pity. I'm honest, remember?"

Marya Morevna snorts. "I'm not allowed to train the troops anymore. The battlefield's no place for a tsarevna."

"At least he didn't say woman."

"He did when I threatened to leave his dear Ivan."

"Would you?"

"Would _you_?"

"No."

"And when yours is tsar? Would he keep me from the battlefield?"

"Not if he's wise."

"And you'll see to it that he is, I suppose. Since we're _sisters_."

"You say that like we're not."

"Well, we're not friends."

They could be, but she's not generous enough to offer. The anger in her stomach twists. She can't separate the part that's hers from the part that's the new tsar's. At that moment, she doesn't want to.

*

Their next task is to bake a loaf of bread. She and Marya Morevna have the same idea of sending a chambermaid to spy on the frog. Vasilissa doesn't doubt what her chambermaid reports, but she suspects a trap. Dough dropped straight into the fire will burn. So rather than copy the frog's tactic, she kneads her dough as normal, then creeps into the courtyard as it rises.

The frog hops outside, glances about, and then sheds its skin. The young woman who emerges is achingly beautiful, with flawless skin and golden curls cascading down to her narrow waist. It's the kind of beauty men would kill to own and witches would curse to keep hidden.

Vasilissa gasps. The young woman hears it and freezes mid-step.

"Don't run," Vasilissa says, rising from her hiding spot. "It's just me. Vasilissa."

"We're sisters," the young woman says, her voice distant, like she's dreaming.

"Yes." Vasilissa doesn't dare step closer. Motion, she fears, will ruin the moment. "What's your name?"

"Yelena."

"Yelena." Vasilissa reaches for something to say. "I was a seamstress before. I'd like to learn from you, if I may. That shirt was far beyond what I can do in a night's time."

Yelena shakes her head. "I've nothing to teach you."

She takes a sharp breath and bites back her words. _You think me beneath you? You think your beauty will last?_ They're both hers and not hers. Vasilissa manages to keep enough of her head to stop herself from speaking in anger.

Yelena cocks her head to the side and watches her. "You and the other came of your own volition."

Some of Vasilissa's anger recedes, the part that comes from the new tsar's will. Can Yelena feel that something is wrong? Or has she spent so long as a frog that she doesn't know what to make of human form, human feeling? "As much of our own volition as fate allowed."

"Fate." Yelena speaks as if testing the word. "Yes." She turns away. "I have nothing to teach you, sister, but I'll not stop you from watching." She steps onto the grass and calls out, "Ladies of mine, ladies of mine, bake me a loaf of bread fitting for a holiday feast!"

The air swirls around Yelena, and the ghostly image of three fair ladies flicker before her. And then they disappear, leaving a loaf of bread on a golden plate at Yelena's feet. Yelena bends to pick it up. "You see? I should be asking you for instruction."

"I'd give it. We're sisters."

"But I am a frog. What good is a needle and thread to me? Or rising dough that requires kneading?"

Her bread! Vasilissa hurries back to the kitchen. Her dough is salvageable, though it's not her best loaf. She doesn't bother making another. Her best won't compare to the loaf Yelena presents, and sure enough, the presentation of their bread is as humiliating as the presentation of their shirts.

"You won't always be a frog," Vasilissa says when they're alone in the courtyard. She's not sure if it's a threat or a statement of fact. She's still angry at the tsar's harsh words. It's hard to direct all of her anger at him. Had her stepsisters felt like this when their mother offered a rare word of praise to Vasilissa?

Yelena blinks up at her. She croaks, and Vasilissa thinks she hears, "Won't I?"

But she's not sure. Yelena hops away towards the pond. Vasilissa doesn't follow.

*

Three is a powerful number, so Vasilissa is not surprised when the tsar makes a third announcement. "We'll have a ball to see which of my daughters-in-law is the best dancer."

"This I might best you at," Marya Morevna murmurs, flashing Vasilissa a biting smile. "Dancing's like combat."

"Especially with a husband like yours." Vasilissa raises a hand to her mouth. She'd meant it in jest, forgetting (or maybe remembering) that Marya Morevna hates being teased. "That's not quite what I meant to say," she says as Marya Morevna's expression darkens. "The two of you are equals in combat, yes? I can only imagine how glorious that dance will be."

The look Marya Morevna gives her is tinged with suspicion, but she accepts the apology with curt nod. Then she looks down at Yelena. "Not as glorious as hers will be, I'm sure." Her voice is (uncharacteristically) laden with defeat.

"No."

"I could kill her." Marya Morevna watches the frog hop from the room. "Even you could. It's not that hard to step on a frog."

"She's our sister!"

"Not by blood." Marya Morevna tilts her head in consideration. "Not that blood matters. I've seen enough brothers face each other on the battlefield."

"Have you ever squared off against a brother? Or a sister?"

Marya Morevna laughs. "If I'd had a brother, I wouldn't be a general. I am my father's only child. You?"

"I had two stepsisters."

"Had?"

"They're dead."

Marya Morevna gives her a look, one that makes Vasilissa feel as if her entire soul is laid bare. "Two stepsisters. And a stepmother?"

Vasilissa nods.

"No wonder you have the doll." There might be some pity in Marya Morevna's expression, but it's gone before Vasilissa can be sure, and then Marya Morevna is striding away, one hand at her side, as if resting on the hilt of an invisible sword.

She has not, Vasilissa suddenly realizes, worn her sword since the tsar's recovery. She doesn't need to offer food or drink to Matushka to know Marya Morevna's no longer allowed to carry her weapons. But she does anyway, because she needs the doll's comfort.

Matushka doesn't eat or drink. Vasilissa wipes the milk from the doll's painted mouth. "Has its will twisted you, too?"

Matushka doesn't reply.

Vasilissa tries again the next day, then the next, and then the morning of the ball. She hears nothing, feels nothing, from Matushka. 

"So you've abandoned me?" Vasilissa raises her arm to fling Matushka across the room. There's a croak from behind her. Yelena. And just like that, Vasilissa's anger fades. She lowers her arm and turns to face her visitor. "Sister."

Yelena bobs her head. She hops into the room and stops at Vasilissa's feet, staring up at the doll.

"Oh. That's right. I've never introduced you." Vasilissa kneels and arranges Matushka in front of Yelena, propping the doll up with her hand. "This is Matushka. My mother gave her to me when I was a girl. You must think it's silly of me to have kept her for so long, but it's like my mother is still with me." She lets Matushka fall. "Or was."

Yelena takes Matushka's hand in her mouth and hops back, hauling the doll back into a sitting position. Something sparks between the three of them, and for a moment, Vasilissa feels the comforting presence of Matushka, but then whatever magic Yelena managed pops, and Matushka is once again a little wooden doll. Yelena releases her, and Matushka clatters to the floor.

"Thank you." Vasilissa scoops up the doll. "I'm not sure why you came, but you stopped me from doing something foolish." She rises up on tiptoe to set Matushka on top of the wardrobe, and then turns to face Yelena again. "What can I do for you?"

Yelena croaks. "Follow."

So Vasilissa follows her down into the courtyard, to the edge of the pond. Yelena jumps in and sinks down into the mud until only her eyes and the top of her head showed.

"You're...nervous about the ball." Vasilissa isn't sure how she gathered that, but it feels right, so she takes the way Yelena bobs her head beneath the surface as an agreement.

"You'll win the tsar's favor. It's fate, isn't it?"

Yelena bob beneath the surface again.

"Then how can I begrudge you? Or is that not what you fear?"

Yelena goes still, and her stillness spreads through the entire pond, like the ripples radiating from her before.

"No, it's not me you fear. It's Marya Morevna." Vasilissa hugs her knees to her chest. "I haven't told you my worst, and I think my fear is that you won't call me sister when I do."

Yelena creeps forward to the edge of the pond.

"I suppose I owe you that." Yelena and Marya Morevna, but she's too afraid to tell them both. "My mother died, and my father, of course, remarried. I was very young. My stepmother had two daughters, both older than me, and neither particularly beautiful. Nor were they kind, so really, they either needed to be exceedingly beautiful or exceedingly clever to snare the husbands their mother wanted for them. But I suppose it doesn't matter what they were. I'm trying to lengthen the tale so I don't have to get to the end."

The end where she kills them. Vasilissa swallows and hugs her knees tighter. "I killed them. And my stepmother. They burned to ash before my eyes, and I felt nothing but relief, and even now, I don't regret it. But I do wish we could have been sisters. I was so happy to learn I'd have sisters."

Yelena dips below the water again. Vasilissa waits, but she doesn't resurface, and really, what did she expect? She'd just confessed to killing her last set of sisters. She'd retreat too in Yelena's place.

*

The ball is grand, and both she and Marya Morevna are beautiful, but Yelena, when she finally arrives an hour late, is even more beautiful. Vasilissa makes her way to Marya Morevna's side. Her hand is at her hip again, and Vasilissa wonders if Marya Morevna feels her missing sword beneath her palm. "She's been cursed."

"Yes, I can see that," Marya Morevna snaps. "Seeing as she used to be a frog."

"Please don't hate her."

Marya Morevna's mouth tightens. "You see what she's doing?"

Yelena accepts a goblet of wine from her husband, drinks, and when he's not looking, pours the dregs down her left sleeve. It leaves no stain on the golden silk.

"She's dropped the bones down her left sleeve. What's she planning?"

"To be the best dancer. That's the test."

"And what are you planning?"

"To be the worst dancer, since I doubt I have your skill."

"That's not what I mean."

"What are _you_ planning?"

"Put me on a battlefield, and I can cut down any foe. This," Marya Morevna waves her hand at all the dancing couples, "isn't my kind of battlefield. I don't think it's yours, either, but you fare better on it than I do."

"I told you I had stepsisters."

"And you told me they're dead. What do they have to do with this?"

"I killed them. And my stepmother."

"I know. I could see it in your eyes. What does that have to do with this?"

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know."

The musicians break, and the tsar rises from his throne. "My daughters-in-law." He smiles at them, wide and predatory, and spreads his arms. "Which of you will dance first? You, Vasilissa, as my eldest son's wife?"

She curtseys. "If it pleases you, my tsar, the eldest is first in so many things. I'd have first honors go to Yelena, your youngest son's wife."

The tsar laughs. "And you, Marya Morevna, do you agree?"

Marya Morevna bows. "I've no complaint following my sister's wisdom."

"Then come, Yelena, Ivan." He motions to the musicians, and they start in on the opening movement.

"Yelena?" Marya Morevna asks as they watch the pair glide along the floor.

"We met while baking our bread."

"And you kept it secret?"

Yelena is light in her husband's arms. He spins her, and as she twirls, she shakes her right sleeve. A pool blossoms at her feet, and she and Ivan dance over it, tiny ripples radiating beneath their feet. Woods sprout along the edge of the dance floor, the leaves budding, unfurling, and then turning red and gold as Ivan spins her again.

She shakes her left sleeve. A flurry of birds burst from it, bright cardinals and blue jays and tiny finches, all trilling prettily as they circle around her and Ivan before settling on the tree branches, now bare.

The song ends, and the birds and the woods and then finally the pond fade away on the last notes. Ivan keeps hold of Yelena. For a moment, the hall is silent, and then the court bursts into applause.

Even the tsar looks pleased, but the longer Vasilissa watches, the more clearly she sees his growing anger. He'd not expected such a show.

Marya Morevna sighs. "A pity he won't simply let us concede defeat. Well, since youngest went first, I suppose middle goes second?"

"If you wish. It will end badly for me either way."

It ends badly for them both. The tsar stops Marya Morevna and her husband halfway through their dance. "It's a waltz, not a wrestling match." Both she and Ivan retreat from the floor, blushing in shame.

Vasilissa doesn't make it a quarter of the way through. "Didn't your father teach you anything? How many times will you step on my son's feet."

"It was only once," Ivan murmurs, his arm warm at the small of her back as he escorts her off the floor.

"Your father is--"

"Our tsar." His tone isn't cruel, but it is firm. He'll accept no arguments.

She tries anyway. "Please, can't you do something?"

"What would you have me do? He's hale and hearty and doesn't need advice from boys he can still take over his knee." He pulls her closer and leans into her, resting his head against hers. "I know what you feel, but he is our tsar. Go get some rest. You'll feel better in the morning, I'm sure."

"And you?"

He'll allow you and Marya Morevna to go cry in defeat, but my brothers and I must stay until the end."

"Then I suppose you'll get little rest."

"Even less if I wake you."

She laughs, and oh, it feels good! Even in all the twisted wrong, there's still some joy. She touches his cheek. "Now I think you must."

He cups her hand. "Then I'll promise."

*

Yelena is gone in the morning. Vasilissa's first thought is of Marya Morevna, and she heads to the west tower to confront her, but then she sees the youngest Ivan in the courtyard, and the guilt is plain on his face. So she confronts him. "What did you do?"

"I burned it." He drops to his knees and buries his face in the silk gathered at her waist. "Oh, help me, Vasilissa. I burned it!"

"What did you burn?"

"The frog skin."

Her legs go numb. "Tell me it didn't kill her."

Ivan sobs into her dress. She clutches his shoulders and shakes him. "Tell me, Ivan!"

"She left."

She extracts the story from him, one choking sob at a time. They both stayed until the end of the ball, but since he'd only known her as a frog (except in his dreams), he'd rushed to their rooms ahead of her, seeking the key to keeping her human. So of course he burned the frog skin when he saw it. And he thought it worked. She was still human when she returned, still human when he finally fell asleep, but then she'd roused him just before dawn to say her farewells.

"If I'd only waited a little longer. That's what she said. If only I had."

Vasilissa kneels in front of him and cups his face in her hands. "Where did she go?"

"I don't know! What she said didn't make any sense. Thrice-Ten Kingdom past the Thrice-Nine Land? There's no such place!"

Something around them twists. Potential washes over Vasilissa. There's an opportunity. No, two. A chance to rescue Yelena and a chance to set the kingdom right. Fate does have a grand plan.

"Ivan." She lets her hands drop. "Will you let me find her?" She does, she realizes, need his permission. Yelena is her sister and his wife, so they both have interest in her heart. But only one of them can seek her out.

"And bring her back?"

She nods. "She's my sister and your wife. This is her home now."

"Find her." His voice is open and raw. "You'll reach her. I'm afraid...well, I'm the man who didn't want to marry a frog. It's better if you go."

She doesn't ask the tsar for his permission to leave. She doesn't ask her husband, either. She waits until night, until her husband is asleep and the palace is quiet. Then she creeps from her bed and dresses in her traveling clothes, the heavy fabric a welcome weight after all the light (too light) silks.

She fetches Matushka from her hiding place atop the wardrobe. The doll still won't talk to her, but Vasilissa can't leave her.

She's both surprised but not when she realizes she's heading towards the highest tower, to the tsarina's prison. Her mother had given her Matushka so she'd always have a source of comfort. Her situation then is not the same as the tsarina's situation now, but comfort is comfort, and what safer place for Matushka than the one place nobody's allowed to visit?

The guards are asleep. Vasilissa wills her fingers nimble and steals the key. The door squeaks, but fate (or maybe Matushka) keeps the guards asleep. "It's Vasilissa," she whispers, creeping into the room.

The tsarina is awake. Her cheeks are hollow, and her hair, once thick and wavy, hangs limply at her shoulders. "Vasilissa. My daughter. Have you been condemned, too?"

"No. Not yet."

That earns her a wan smile.

"Yelena is gone."

"Yelena? I know that name from a dream."

"Your youngest son's bride."

"Ah. The frog."

Vasilissa nods. "I'm going to find her. But first, I want to give you something." She sets Matushka in the tsarina's lap. "This is Matushka. My mother gave her to me when I was a little girl. She said if I ever needed comfort, all I needed to do was give Matushka a bit to eat and drink, and she'd do what she could. I can't take her with me to find Yelena. Can I trust her to you?"

"You think I need comfort?"

"All people do."

"True." The tsarina curls her hands over Matushka. "I'll keep your doll safe."

"Thank you." She bows her head.

"Vasilissa. Before you go, seek out the witch in the forest. I'm not sure she'll help, but maybe she'll give you some protection from the tsar's eye."

"Not your husband's?"

The tsarina turns to the window. "When I sleep, there are ravens, and they're tearing the flesh from my husband's bones. Then a swarm of wasps come, and the ravens scatter. When the wasps leave, my husband's body is whole again, but it's not him in it. I don't think they're dreams. If you feel anything for this kingdom, come back when you find Yelena and defeat whatever it is that wears my husband's flesh. I can't, and I doubt my sons see it for what it is."

"They see their tsar."

"As they must." Her fingers tighten around Matushka. "Unless they want to join me."

*

It is hard finding her way to the witch's hut. The paths through the forest twist and turn back on themselves. Vasilissa takes to marking the trees, because she's certain she's passed the same gnarled stump three times now. Once she starts carving her arrows, the paths open up, and she emerges in a small clearing with a familiar hut.

"Are you home, grandmother?" There's smoke puffing from the chimney, so she knows the old woman is, or not long gone.

The witch emerges from the hut. "You know full well I am. And now I know you're determined as well as honest, dearie. Will you let an old lady serve you stew?"

"In return for what?"

"Ah, three drops of your blood, perhaps. Or three honest answers." She rubs her chin. "The answers, I think. I have enough blood."

"I think I'd rather trade answer for answer."

"Answer for boon is more like it. Or are you not here on your tsarina's advice?"

"I'm here on her advice."

"And are you here to beg on her behalf?"

"She didn't ask me to. Do you know what happened to her husband?"

"A curse, of course, but you already know that." She clucks her tongue. "Such a pity you've wasted a question."

"There have been so many curses at the palace lately."

"Have there? I only know of the one."

"Oh? Then what do you make of the youngest prince's bride?"

"The frog?" The witch laughs. "Ah, yes, that is a curse, but it happened long ago, and it was only at the palace for a fleeting moment. It hardly counts."

"It counts to me. Will you help me, grandmother? I must escape the tsar's eye to go find my sister."

"Your sister?"

"The frog."

The witch stares at her. It's similar to the look Marya Morevna gave her, the one that laid her soul bare. Vasilissa endures it. What else can she do?

"Ah, now this is interesting." The witch circles around her. "Not at all what I expected. Yes, I think I will help, but it won't come without a cost. You know that, dearie."

"Nothing comes without a cost."

"How very true. You'll kill the tsar. Or he'll kill you. That's how this must end, no matter what else you think you must do."

"The price of your assistance, grandmother? All this talk makes me nervous, like you're keeping me for someone."

The witch laughs. "The tsar won't ask for _my_ help. You're just impatient. Ah, well, it is the mark of youth." She settles down on a stump in front of her hut. "The price, then. Go into my hut and bring me the first three things you see."

Vasilissa nods. It's a game, no doubt. The witch likely knows exactly what she'll bring. The hut is hers, so it will reveal what she wishes to Vasilissa. She steps inside.

The first thing she sees is a small leather pouch dangling from one of the rafters. She all but runs into it, in fact, as it's hanging in the doorway. The second is a crow's feather floating lazily before her, caught in a swirl of air from the door. The third is a squirrel's skull, the bone bleached white.

The witch is unsurprised by her offerings. "You'll burn the tsar to ashes. Gather them in this pouch. I'll come collect it at your husband's coronation. You'll set a place for me at the feast, won't you?"

"I'd be honored to have you, grandmother."

She snorts. "You'll be the only one. A witch at a coronation. A bad omen, that."

"But I call you grandmother."

"So you do." She picks up the feather. "Use this to return home. You've left something there you need, haven't you?"

The skull lantern. How else will she burn the tsar to ash when the time comes?

"Trade the feather for something while you're there. Something of equal worth. I'll know if you cheat me."

"That would be dishonest of me."

"This," the witch picks up the skull, "will you lead you to your sister. Leave it where you find her. I do so wish to see what happens after you leave." She laughs and laughs and laughs, clutching her stomach and teetering on the stump.

"Thank you, grandmother."

"Ah, we'll see if you still say that when I come to your husband's coronation. Be off with you, now. You're impatient to leave, and I've talked myself out."

Vasilissa leaves the clearing. The witch starts laughing again, and it echoes around her until the feather points her to a narrow path between two cedars, and then she's in a different forest. The air is chilly enough to make her breath fog. It's nearly sundown, and she's not at all surprised by the thunder of hooves behind her.

She steps off the path. A black horse gallops past her. The rider pays her no heed. He's dressed in black, the same deep black as the horse, so it's hard to tell if they are indeed horse and rider or simply one being.

Night falls. It doesn't take her long to reach Baba Yaga's hut. Vasilissa squats down at edge of the fence in a pool of light cast by one of the skull lanterns set on pikes. What kind of bones did Baba Yaga use to build her fence? Human femurs, perhaps? No, she won't guess. She'll just wait for Baba Yaga.

"What's this?"

Vasilissa startles. She hadn't heard Baba Yaga approach, but there she is, stepping out of her mortar. Vasilissa rises to her feet. Baba Yaga watches her and says, "My, but it's been years."

"Yes." She curtseys. "I've come to ask. Can I use the skull again?"

"That lantern I gave you? It's still yours. You burying it like it begged you didn't give it back."

"Oh." She thought it had.

"Last time you came with a doll. Now you're carrying feathers?"

"I've been asked to trade it."

"Hmmm." Baba Yaga holds out her hand. Vasilissa gives her the crow's feather. "There's potential here. I suppose I can offer something." She closes her hand over the feather, and when she opens it, there's a vial in her palm. "Poppy oil. I trust it's acceptable."

Vasilissa takes the vial and hefts it in her hand, testing it for...for some feeling. Yes, that weight in her stomach. It's an acceptable trade. "Grandmother will find you generous."

"Take care, child. I'll give you tasks if you linger."

She's surprised Baba Yaga hadn't. Perhaps she can only perform tasks for one witch at a time, or perhaps there is some room for pity in Baba Yaga's heart. Who knows? Vasilissa hurries down the path to where she buried the skull.

The lantern is exactly where she left it. And it's not happy when she digs it up. _What more can you wish of me?_

"The power of your gaze. I may have need of it."

_And if you don't?_

"I'll be surprised."

She is not surprised when the leather pouch expands to hold to skull. Nor is she surprised that it contains its gaze. _It is temporary,_ the skill says. _Once you open this pouch, it will not hold me again._

"Then I'll be very careful about when I open it."

She sets off down the path again. Hooves thunder behind her again, but she's not near Baba Yaga's hut, and it's not close enough to dawn for her to encounter the white rider. Vasilissa darts off the path and hunkers down behind a tree, her pulse pounding in her ears. The horse stops and snorts. A familiar voice curses.

And then Marya Morevna says, "Where did she go?"

Vasilissa steps out from behind the tree. "Is it really you?" She holds the bag ready in case it is a trick. Though she has no idea how she'll contain the skull's power afterwards.

"You think I'm some trick?"

"I think..." She gets a good look at the horse and gasps. "I think that's a finer mare than you had at the palace." It is a terrifying creature, as black as the black rider's steed, with red eyes and steam billowing from its nose.

"You're not the only one who had to go home to collect something." Marya Morevna leans down and offers her a hand. "Shall we go?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're the one who kept saying we're sisters. Isn't this what sisters do?"

"I didn't think...you." Vasilissa stepped forward. "You know I'm going to find Yelena, don't you?"

"And then you're going to set the kingdom right. If you won't believe all your talk of being sisters finally found its way through my battle-knocked skull, then you should believe I'm not the kind of woman who will let you have all the glory." The smile Marya Morevna flashes is made sharper by the moonlight.

"I think I believe both." She takes Marya Morevna's hand and lets her sister haul her up onto the saddle.

*

Marya Morevna's mare makes quick time to the Thrice-Ten Kingdom. It is an easy ride. Vasilissa is not used to horses, but she's not sore at all when they stop by a small hut at the edge of a forest. She might like riding more if she could borrow the mare.

The squirrel skull is warm in Vasilissa's hand. "Yelena's been here."

"Is the little squirrel chattering to you?"

"Is your horse chattering to you?" During their ride, Marya Morevna had said the mare could take her to any person. All she needs is a scent.

The image of Marya Morevna stealing dresses from her and Yelena is enough to make Vasilissa smile, but she keeps her amusement to herself.

"Horses prefer to leave the chattering to others." Marya Morevna starts towards the hut. Her stride is long enough that Vasilissa has to jog to keep pace.

They stop at the split rail fence. The wood is pale, almost the same shade as sun-bleached bone, and the power radiating from the cottage most certainly belongs to a witch. She exchanges a quick look with Marya Morevna. "Are you home, grandmother?"

The hut shudders, then spins around three times. When it settles back in place, there's an old woman in the door nearly bent double in age. "My, my. Such strange smelling visitors. What business do you have with an old lady?"

"We're looking for our sister. Yelena."

"Your sister, you say? Yelena? I do know a Yelena, child, but she has no sisters. No brothers, either. And now, no parents. But ah, she is a lovely child, and she's done well enough in her godmothers' care."

"Our sister-in-law," Marya Morevna says. "We're married to brothers. Has Yelena been here?"

"Ah, so you would be the kind Vasilissa and the fearsome Marya Morevna. Yes, Yelena's been here. She spoke of you often, at least at first. But now you're not even memory. Go speak to my sister, one by blood, not marriage. She may know more."

Marya Morevna bows. "Thank you, grandmother."

They reach the next hut by noon. The squirrel skull is a bit warmer in her hand, but these sorts of things happen in threes, so Vasilissa knows before they dismount that Yelena is not here.

She and Marya Morevna still stand at the fence and call out to the witch. The hut spins three times, and the old woman who greets them has gnarled hands and a hump on her back. "My, my. Such strange smelling visitors. Did my sister send you? What business do you have with an old lady?"

"We're looking for our sister." Marya Morevna nudges her, so Vasilissa quickly adds, "Our sister-in-law, I mean. Yelena."

"I see. I see. You're too late, I'm afraid. She's soon to be someone else's sister-in-law. Do you still wish to see her?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll have to visit my eldest sister. But you must hurry. The wedding's at dawn, and when the sun sets, my sister will lock Yelena away for the night." She laughs. "A bride needs her rest."

"Thank you, grandmother."

"I should have cut her and her sister down." Marya Morevna tosses a dark look over her shoulder. "For all the good it would do. Witches always seem to manage one last curse or two."

"Have you killed many witches?" Vasilissa asks as Marya Morevna helps her into the saddle.

"No. Not many."

They arrive at the third hut at sundown. The squirrel skull burns her palm, but Vasilissa keeps hold of it. She'd promised to leave it where she finds Yelena, after all.

The hut doesn't spin when they call out to the witch. Marya Morevna drops her hand to the sword at her side. "I can cut our way in."

"Or we could try crawling through the window." Vasilissa points.

"Like thieves?"

"Well. In a way, we are."

Marya Morevna snorts. "True enough. I'll lift you up."

The hut seems to grow the closer they approach. Vasilissa can barely reach the window standing on Marya Morevna's shoulders. Below her, Marya Morevna curses and then says, "I'm cutting my way in."

Vasilissa drops to the floor. The witch sits at her hearth winding a length of golden thread around a spindle. She gives no indication of noticing Vasilissa, but a witch knows everything that happens around her hut. She's well aware of her intruders.

Marya Morevna finally hacks through the wall as the witch finishes with the thread. She locks the spindle in a cedar chest and tosses the key into the fire. "My, my." She turns to face them. "Such strange smelling visitors. Did my sisters send you? What business do you have with an old lady?"

Vasilissa steps forward. Marya Morevna is a comforting presence at her back. "We've come for Yelena."

"Not for the wedding? And I'd hoped for guests."

"Please let us see her."

"And what purpose will that serve? She doesn't remember you. Either of you. Doesn't remember that young man, either."

Marya Morevna steps to Vasilissa's side. "If that were true, you wouldn't have locked her away."

"You're still a young one, girl. Don't try for wisdom beyond your years."

"Don't try to fool us. I'm not afraid to cut you down."

"No, I believe you're not." She steps aside, giving them access to the hearth. "Fetch the key, then, if you wish to speak to her."

Marya Morevna squares her shoulders and approaches the fire.

"Wait!" Vasilissa lunges for her, but Marya Morevna really does have a long stride. The fire intensifies when she reaches the edge of the hearth, the flames tinged blue at the center. Marya Morevna steps in, and...

And the flames don't touch her. The air shimmers crimson around her, and she snares the key with her sword and emerges from the fire unscathed. The key glows on the tip of her sword, but as soon as the crimson shield around Marya Morevna fades, it cools down, and by the time Marya Morevna tips it into Vasilissa's hand, it's not even warm.

"Should I ask?"

Marya Morevna smiles. "When this is all done, I'll regale you with stories like you've never heard."

They unlock the chest. Yelena is at the bottom, curled around the spindle of golden thread. Vasilissa reaches down and shakes her awake. "Yelena. It's us. Your sisters."

Yelena blinks the sleep from her eyes. "My sisters? I dreamed I had sisters. And a husband. There was a ball, oh, what a ball! I do love to dance."

Marya Morevna leaned over Vasilissa's shoulder. "So you showed us. That was no dream."

"It wasn't?" Yelena sits up. She looks from Vasilissa to Marya Morevna, then down to the spindle. "It wasn't. And you came for me. Oh!" She jumps up. "But I'm to be married again. Soon now. He's coming."

"Which leaves you with a choice, child," the witch says. "You can leave with your sisters or stay and be wed."

"You'd agree so easily?" Marya Morevna asks.

"So easily you say. As if you faced no trials on your way here." The witch laughs. "I must abide by the child's choice."

"My choice?" Yelena steps out of the chest. She reaches out to touch Vasilissa's cheek. "Will you teach me to sew?"

"And bake bread. You'll have to ask her," she jerks her head at Marya Morevna, "for archery lessons."

"Don't volunteer me for things."

Yelena smiles. "Then my choice," her smile widens on the word, "is to return with you."

*

Marya Morevna's mare carries the three of them as easily as she bore Marya Morevna and Vasilissa. They ride through the night and all the next day without a break, and when they stop, the mare is as fresh as when they began. "You'll tell me she's a magic horse," Vasilissa says as they dismount, "but..."

"I told you. When this is over, I'll regale you with stories."

"And me, too?" Yelena asks. She sounds painfully young.

Marya Morevna scowls. Her back is to Yelena, so at least the girl doesn't see it. "And you too." She lifts her chin and considers the city gates. "We won't have an easy time in."

It's true. The city is drawn up tight, like the tsar knows they're coming.

"I can fight our way through."

Vasilissa doesn't doubt it. "Whatever it is, it hasn't twisted everyone. I'd rather not fight through them."

"If you have a clever way of figuring out friend from foe, I'll listen."

Yelena steps between them. "I might. May I try?"

"Please," Vasilissa says.

Yelena nods. She moves out from between them and calls, "Ladies of mine, ladies of mine, come one last time."

The air in front of her shimmers, and the ghostly forms of the three witches appear. The eldest says, "One last time, you say."

Yelena kneels before them and bows her head. "There are people in the city not fully twisted by the tsar. I beg you, please, keep them and our husbands safe."

The witches exchange a look. "Why do you beg for that?"

"Because..." Yelena's shoulders shake. "Because I love this city. And my sisters. And my husband. So if I must beg for their safety, please, ladies. Keep them safe!"

"How very interesting. None of us gifted you with a kind heart." The eldest flicks her hand, and she and her sisters transform into the young, graceful forms who'd delivered the bread to Yelena. "Very well. One last boon. We can give you three hours. Use them well."

Yelena rises. "Thank you, ladies."

They dart towards the city, sliding effortlessly through the closed gates. "So," Marya Morevna says a few moments of odd silence, "should we give them time to work, or go in now?"

"They'd have said to give them time if they needed it."

Marya Morevna glances at Vasilissa. Vasilissa shrugs. "They're Yelena's ladies. She knows them."

"As well as any woman can know her fairy godmothers, I suppose." Marya Morevna sets her shoulders and marches towards the gate. "You'll let us in!" she yells. "Or you'll face my blade. Do you want it to be the last thing you see?"

Enough of them do. Marya Morevna is glorious in battle, but she is not as magical as her mare. By the time they reach the palace, she's panting, and her dark hair clings to her neck. But she has enough strength to push through to the hall, where the tsar is holding court despite everything.

Not everyone is in attendance. So Yelena's godmothers are as good as their word. But there are more people than Vasilissa likes. At least the tsar's sons aren't among their numbers. She'd hate to kill her husband or one of their brothers (because they are her brothers, just as Marya Morevna and Yelena are her sisters).

"What is this?" The tsar rises from this throne. "You'd raise your sword against me. Me, your tsar?" He motions to his guard.

They circle Marya Morevna. She cuts down the first two, but the third lands a blow, and his second forces her to her knees.

"Stop!" Vasilissa rushes forward. He backhands her. It's a heavy blow, heavier than she'd ever received at her stepmother's hands. She stumbles back. Yelena steadies her.

The skull lantern hangs heavy at her side. Marya Morevna is still on her knees, and the guard is raising his sword for the killing blow, and Vasilissa knows she must use the skull, but she remembers the blinding light and the screams and the smell of searing flesh and the ash, oh the ash.

And then Yelena screams, because the sword is at Marya Morevna's neck. Vasilissa yanks the bag open and lifts out the skull, and it's worse than she remembers, because there are more people, more screams, more ash, but it's over in an instant, and she, Yelena, and Marya Morevna are unharmed.

The light fades until only the skull's eye sockets glow. "I know," Vasilissa says, lowering it. "Bury you where two paths cross in a hole nine feet deep."

_No. Place me in your highest tower and cover me with a shroud woven from three hairs from each of your heads. My light will only find your enemies, and only when they intend you harm._

"A generous offer. And until I weave the shroud?"

_I will rest, but only three days._

Of course. Three is a magic number. She sets the skull down and moves to help Yelena pull Marya Morevna to her feet. There is so much ash, so much death. It's a heavy price, but their kingdom is safe (for now) and she has sisters. _Sisters._ She'll make them worth the cost.

**Author's Note:**

> The framework for the story is based on [The Frog Princess](http://russian-crafts.com/russian-folk-tales/princess-frog.html). Vasilissa comes from [Vasilissa the Beautiful](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vasilissa_the_Beautiful), and Marya Morevna is actually pretty darn close to a trained assassin. She's a princess and a general who goes out a-warring, and it's really just not right that she's rescued by a prince in [The Death of Koshchei the Deathless](http://russian-crafts.com/russian-folk-tales/death-of-koshchei-the-deathless.html). So she gets to be a rescuer here.


End file.
